Mischief Managed
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Sherlock will work as long as it takes to get a mystery solved - John on the other hand will do anything to see that his other half gets some 'down-time' A slightly smutty Johnlock for Mattsloved1 - Rated M to be safe.


**Mattsloved1 wanted a story where our lovely boys ended up bare in bed, and to this end she gave me three words: _Mischievous, Temptation_ and _Bliss_.  
I hope you enjoy it my dear.  
Disclaimer: Really don't own...really wish I did!**

The idea had been percolating in John's mind for most of the evening.

Sherlock had been sitting in his suit, hunched over his microscope since they had returned from St Bart's, and now, at almost midnight, John thought it was about time he took a break.

Getting up from his chair and walking into the kitchen, he moved behind Sherlock, his hand stroking across the taut, suit covered arse. Sherlock's head shot up, but John wasn't looking, he was reaching into the fridge for milk, in preparation for making a drink.

Putting the kettle on, John slipped back out of the room and along to the bedroom. Minutes later he was back in the kitchen.

"Where shall I put your tea?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked up, and the sight that met them held him captive. Wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms, John stood opposite him, seemingly unconsciously flexing his pecs and biceps, holding out a steaming mug.

The younger man licked his lips, and felt his cock twitch at the sight of the blatant **temptation **in front of him. As he reached forward to take the drink their hands brushed, and his mouth felt suddenly dry. He nodded his thanks.

John took his own drink and stood, looking down at the cold empty London street, biding his time, a **mischievous** grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Reflected in the window, he could see the shadow of his partner, pausing now and then to sip his tea, his eyes rarely straying from the work in front of him.

Straightening up his face, John swallowed down the last of his tea and returned to the kitchen, moving once more behind the busy detective, this time brushing his hip against Sherlock's elbow as he collected the dirty cup.

"John." Sherlock looked away from his microscope once more, but found whatever he had intended to say had crumbled like dead leaves on his tongue. John had not stopped to look at him, he was walking to the sink, the waistband of his pyjamas sitting very low on his hips giving the younger man a clear view of the fading line between his tanned, toned back, and his pale round buttocks.

"John." This time it was a strangled groan, and the smaller man heard the creak of the kitchen stool as Sherlock adjusted his sitting position to accommodate the growing constriction in the front of his trousers. "What are you doing?"

There was an innocent smile on John's face as he turned to reveal the dip of the waistband at the front that clearly showed the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath the soft fabric, and the smooth skin beginning to goose-bump in the slightly cooler evening air.

"Come to bed."

"But, I need…."

"No." Slowly John re-traced his steps until he once more stood behind Sherlock and ever so gently, ever so carefully, he pressed his body against his lover's slender back, joining them from hip to shoulder, letting his lower body gently rock against the other man's arse as he whispered softly in his ear. "You've been staring at this all evening, and getting nowhere – now I have somewhere I want to be; and I want you there too."

Warm hands slid up and under the immaculate suit jacket, rising until palms skimmed across rapidly hardening nipples, then sinking to sweep across taut, twitching stomach muscles.

"Now Sherlock."

It was an unmistakable order, despite softness of his voice John had managed to put every ounce of Captain Watson into that command, and before he realised what was happening Sherlock had allowed himself to be led to their bedroom, his clothing being removed for him a piece at a time as they traversed the hallway. By the time they stood beside the bed he was wearing nothing but his boxers, a solid erection and a bemused smile.

Sinking onto the bed, Sherlock pulled the blond doctor down between his legs, running his hands up the smaller man's back as they clung together, moving gradually upwards until they were both fully on the bed, naked and entwined.

Hands that knew every inch of that pale body re-familiarised themselves, stroking the slender but defined chest, running up and down the dip and curve of his sides, kneading and grasping angular hips, while in turn those long, slender musicians fingers sunk hard into the flesh of well-rounded buttocks, guiding, thrusting, cleaving together.

Later, as they lay in the half-world on the edge of sleep, John knew that if this feeling, this** bliss**, was the last conscious feeling he would ever have, then no one could ever be as happy and fulfilled as John H Watson, Ex-Captain, ex- army doctor, fortunate beloved of the world's only Consulting Detective,


End file.
